Kawque Takes a Hand in the Game.
It was the morning of Sunday, July 3, 1814; Ferguson was preaching in
Warner's Chapel (the third Methodist church erected in Upper Canada),
at St. Davids, when, like a hideous spectre of advancing war, Kawque
stood in the doorway, half-naked, and frightful in his war-paint.
"The Longknives have crossed the river," he cried, for his hard black
eyes picked Percy out among the congregation. Gliding toward him, he
gave him the note calling him to a council of war. All the
congregation were running out, the women to bury silver, and the men
to prepare their arms in readiness for the summons which would soon
call them out.
Percy said a few words to his wife, then rode off, to look round as
Ferguson trotted his mount after him--"You have not been sent for
yet, Ferguson," said Percy, "and I wonder your religion lets you
travel on Sunday when you are not compelled to."
"Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, sir."
"Oh, certainly have it your own way, but now I want you to take my
keys. We are going to have the most desperate fighting of this war,
and I have made you my executor in my will. You can see that my
trunk, now at Fort George, goes to Mrs. Haslem, some plate and a
considerable sum in gold are in it."
That Sunday morning seven thousand Americans entered the Niagara
peninsula, and supported by the gun boats of Lake Erie, took Fort
Erie. Their plans were to surround and capture the army of the
defence--instead of chasing it into the bush--also taking Fort
George. Then with the co-operation of the Lake Ontario fleet they
meant to seize and fortify Burlington Heights. The plan was a good
one, but to keep it from being carried out, were fourteen hundred
regulars, sixteen hundred militia, and three hundred Indians,
stationed in Niagara itself. Behind them, Burlington and York had
been stripped of men to make their numbers what they were. Behind
them too, round Burlington and York were the ripening wheat fields,
that must be saved unless Upper Canada was to be starved into
surrender the next winter. Kingston had sent her fleet to blockade
Sackett's Harbour, and was herself blockaded by the American gun
boats of Lake Ontario. In Lower Canada the enemy had massed a huge
army at Lake Champlain, and every available man and gun on the
Canadian side had been called out to guard the roads to Montreal.
On Monday evening, July fourth, Ned stood, once more a sentry, by
Chippewa Creek, the little river that enters the Niagara a few miles
above the Falls. Two miles away was the enemy's camp, strongly
entrenched with a breastwork of logs. The British position was also
good, among sheltering trees, with the rapid stream in front, crossed
by only one bridge. Both leaders were hoping the other would attack.
It grew dark, and Ned, straining his ears to catch the sounds ahead,
felt depressed. He did not like the stories he had heard of the new
Commander, the haughty Marquis of Tweedsdale, and the memory of all
that he had been robbed of, came to him, hurting him fiercely.
Then a dark, silent figure rose before him, and he challenged
sharply. It was Kawque, the scout, and as he had not the password
Ned called for an escort to take him in.
There was a noise of trampling horses, as Riall and Tweedsdale with
their staff rode by. They stopped when the scout was brought to
them, and Ned heard Kawque's laconic report--"Long Knives too strong.
Twice too many for you to attack. Got thirty-six cannon."
The two leaders spoke together, Riall apparently urging something on
his companion to which Tweedsdale answered in his loud harsh
voice--"Nonsense, these Yankees are a pack of untrained cowards. Are
we to sulk here for fear of a mob of scape-gallows and prison men?
They will never stand against a bayonet charge."
"That means we'll go out and attack, only cowards would want to wait
here for them," Ned heard Vere's voice say gleefully, as the leaders
rode on. Ned's face darkened as his enemy passed, riding as if in
triumph over him, and something more like a curse than a prayer rose
to his lips.
"Why not shoot him?" Kawque whispered softly in the young sentry's
ear, "You hate, eh? for he took these"--he touched Ned's sleeve where
the sergeant's stripes had been--"they were to you as the scalps you
had taken with your hand from the enemy."
"Shooting's too good for the cur," said Ned fiercely, adding, angry
with himself, "Get out of here, Kawque, you've no business hanging
'round talking to me."
Kawque went off, thinking, "Shooting's too good, eh? he means he
wants to kill slowly."
Alone again, Ned repeated his fierce prayer for vindication.
In the morning of July fifth, the English drums beat to arms, and
soon after, twelve hundred regulars in three solid columns, with
Tweedsdale leading, crossed the Chippewa, strict orders being given
that the men must reserve their fire until command.
There was, however, a sharp rattle of musketry fire from both sides.
The Canadian militia were crouching behind stumps, and crawling
through the long grass in front of the English position, and as the
columns moved forward, Ned marching by Ferguson, recognized Archy
directing the movements of his men. Though Ned did not know it,
Edgar had also reached the camp the night before, and was now behind
with the Indians. The demands of war had not allowed him to seek his
son.
Suddenly Ferguson looked up, shouting joyously--"Glory to God, I am
saved."
Percy, walking a little in advance, looked back, and smiled. "What's
the matter now, Ferguson?"
"Glory to God," repeated the lively Methodist, "my soul is so happy."
"I suppose that means that you know you will be killed to-day and so
reach Heaven?"
"No, sir, I won't fall to-day, but I am assured I shall be wounded."
"Oh, you have it all arranged, I see. I hope it wasn't against your
conscience to ask that you might get a light one."
Archy kneeling by a log, looked up as they passed. "Guess that's why
you fellows don't think you need be afraid of anything," he shouted,
"seeing you've got a real live Methodist preacher in your ranks."
The three little columns were out in the open now, their close
formation, and the bright scarlet of their uniforms, making it almost
impossible for the enemy's marksmen to miss a shot. They had broken
into a run, with their bayonets flashing, when the Americans, loading
with buckshot and cartridges, swept their front ranks with a death
blast of fire.
Ned saw Percy stagger, and Ferguson spring to his side. For a moment
Percy leaned heavily on the soldier, then steadied himself, changing
his sword to his left hand, as he called to his men. None faltered;
they halted at the word of command, to fire, then dashed on again,
till only a hundred yards from the enemy, who were holding their
fire--till then.
Then again death flashed from the unseen rifles, and now the
invader's cannon spoke also, belching forth death. When the smoke
cleared the brave scarlet lines were gone, only scattered groups were
on the field, but not till the bugles behind them called "retreat",
did they turn to go back, and they carried most of their wounded with
them.
Amid the terrible fire that stopped them, Ned saw Ferguson's musket
fall from his hand, and his friend's right arm hang useless. Still
the Methodist kept his place till they all turned. He was nearly
fainting from loss of blood when they re-crossed the Chippewa, and
Ned was able to bandage his arm roughly with a silk handkerchief.
The bone was not broken, but badly grazed by a ball that had passed
through it just below the elbow, and it held possibilities of danger
if not dressed properly by a surgeon. But no surgeon had come with
the army, which was now in all the confusion of breaking camp.
Tweedsdale's reckless, foolish charge had cost five hundred out of
the twelve who made it, and Riall was afraid of the Americans
attacking his sorely diminished force. They did not, however, for
they had no idea of the smallness of his numbers, nor the extent of
his loss. The British were now in hurried retreat, to the heights of
Queenston, dragging their cannon, and with their wounded in wagons.
It was an excessively hot day. In the excitement of the fighting,
and the hurry of starting off, no one had time to think of thirst,
but now as they marched along, within sight and sound of an inland
ocean of fresh water roaring through the upper rapids, they, and
especially the wounded, suffered frightfully for water. And because
just above the rapids the enemy's gun boats were watching, the men
were ordered not to leave their ranks in the shelter of the woods.
"A curse on their orders," gasped a soldier by Ned, whose face was as
red as his coat. "I'm a going to have a drink if I die for it."
He made a dash for the river, a stone's throw. An officer called to
him angrily to come back instantly, but crazed with thirst, he only
yelled out an oath, knelt down to drink at the water's edge--and the
next moment was downed by an American bullet. No one else tried to
reach the river, though they stared at the water with tortured eyes,
as they trudged along in the heat.
Many of the wounded were raving in delirium. Ferguson, too weak to
walk, was suffering torments jolted along in the rough wagon.
"Water," he panted at last, half unconscious, "A mouthful of water!"
Percy, whose injured shoulder did not prevent him from riding on his
horse, came to the side of the wagon, as he heard him. "Take a
little rum from my flask," he urged, offering it, and the Methodist
took it--the only time in his military life when he tasted liquor.
At midnight the sullen army reached St. Davids. Percy took the
exhausted Ferguson to his wife, to stay, while he rode on to the
hospital at Fort George. The army passed St. Davids, and entrenched
itself at Queenston, where it waited, on very short rations, and
wondering why the enemy did not come on.
But the Americans did not wish to leave the support of the Lake Erie
gun boats until they were sure their Ontario fleet were in Niagara
River. Ned was at Queenston, while Edgar was still with the Indians,
who were acting as pickets in the woods near the Falls.
Two days after the battle, Vere rode to St. Davids, and as he spoke
to Betty, Indian scouts ran through the village, calling that the
Americans were coming, destroying the country as they came. Cattle
and poultry were killed and burnt, fields and gardens trampled down.
Only dwelling houses with women and children in them were untouched.
Ferguson was in no condition to travel, but as to stay meant the
prison-hulks at Sackett's Harbour, he went off through the woods,
guided by Kawque. Vere had his horse, but leaving it with Chloe for
a minute he ran up to the room the Fergusons used. From its window
he saw an American patrol riding in, and picking up a rifle he fired
at them, emptying a saddle. Then leaping downstairs, he mounted and
tore down the road.
Ten minutes later, the house was surrounded, and its occupants
questioned by an angry American officer. "I can see there have been
men in this house," he said to Betty. "Now unless you will tell me
which roads they took through the woods, I shall hold you guilty of
firing on my men."
"You must know," Betty answered calmly, "that as a loyal Englishwoman
I cannot give you any correct information, and as a Christian I
cannot tell you anything false."
To the credit of their blood, there is no instance of women being
mishandled by the men of either side during the war in Canada, and
the officer answered shortly, "In five minutes, if you do not speak I
shall fire your house."
"It is only what I must expect," said Betty, "but I pray you, sir,
watch that the fire does not spread. Everything is so hot and dry."
With nothing saved but the clothes they had on, Bee and Chloe with
Betty and Mrs. Ferguson, who both held their children, stood on the
road, not knowing which way to go, for the fire did spread, and every
house in pretty St. Davids went down.
Meanwhile of the two men who left St. Davids, Ferguson had been taken
by Kawque safely to the Queenston lines, and Ned drove him to Fort
George. Evidently a bit of lead was still in his arm, for it was
terribly swollen and painful, and almost black. Ned had to go back
at once, so he left Ferguson at the hospital--a horror of war.
"You inexpressible idiot," roared the doctor. "Why didn't you ask
for me at once? Thought others were worse than you, eh? Well if you
had not always lived as you have, this arm would have to come off at
once, but now there's a chance."
Meanwhile as Ferguson lay on his fevered bed, and the men at
Queenston saw the smoke of St. Davids go up, Kawque going towards the
Americans to scout, came across a trail which showed him that Vere in
his hasty flight from St. Davids, had taken a wrong turning and gone
into the deep bush. A moment Kawque thought, then went swiftly after
Ned's enemy, until a mêleé of horse and foot marks, and broken
underbrush told him a struggle had taken place in the woods. Vere
had been captured, so much Kawque guessed, but his captors were not
any Indians, the Mohawk knew, and yet he was sure the Americans had
not advanced that far.
Silently now as a snake, Kawque glided through the underbrush until
he came to a hut, where men whom he recognized as Sell's gang,
deserters from both armies, were standing round Vere, who with his
hands tied behind him, was foaming with rage.
Then a man in a ragged red coat--Sells himself--stepped forward, and
laughed in his face--"I too was a gentleman once, until your damned
grandfather had me flogged, at Kingston; I'd kill you now in revenge,
only the Yankees are hotfoot after us--we did a bit of plundering
among the Canucks--and the last man of us will be hanged if we can't
give them the slip. See here, the Yankee leader is Eli Goode; we
know his sister's at St. Davids, with a nigger woman, and two of us
are going there disguised as Indians to get her, and then I guess her
brother will sing another tune. It's up to you to tell us where she
is."
Vere had plenty of animal courage in the excitement of battle, but
when he saw the preparations for his torture by the miscreants, his
soul was afraid, yet he had enough English instinct to answer Sells
bravely, with a curse, though the degenerate within him whispered,
"Why suffer for a Yankee girl?"